Do Not Mix With Bleach
by TheNeme
Summary: Chaos ensues after Shuichi cleans up some spilled fruit juice.
1. Do Not Mix With Bleach

**Title:** Do Not Mix With Bleach

**Author:** Neme

**Blood Type:** Raspberry Tea

**Fandom:** Gravitation

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is not owned by me in any way, shape or form. But I have to obey it. Because it's the _law_.

**Warnings:** Some of the content contained herein is hazardous to your health and should _not_ be attempted under any circumstances.

**Author's Notes: **This is a product of a late night conversation with my roommate. Sort of.

Shindou Shuichi yawned and took another sip of his fruit punch. What time was it anyway? Ten forty-five? _Already_? Shit. Yuki was going to kill him; the singer had promised to pick up Chinese take-out and cigarettes on his way home. Dealing with an angry Yuki he could handle. An angry, nicotine-deprived Yuki on a deadline? The chances of his survival decreased significantly. Shuichi shoved the half-finished lyrics into his bag. Fujisaki, K and Sakano would just have to deal with it. Shuichi hated dealing with the precocious keyboardist, especially when the timeliness of his lyrics was being questioned.

Standing up, the singer slung his bag over his shoulder. For a moment, it was as if time had slowed down so that he would be sure to capture every minute detail; the yellow bag hit the can of juice and sent the red liquid flooding across the floor of the studio. The can clattered against the far wall, applauding his misfortune.

Dammit.

Maybe... maybe if he hurried, he could get this mess cleaned up, race to the convenience store and the take-out place before they closed and be home before midnight, Shuichi thought, racing down the hall to the supply closet. His footsteps echoed loudly in the empty space; everyone else had already gone home for the night. The singer flung the door open, grabbing a bottle of cleanser and a mop. Fruit punch stained, he remembered suddenly, and so he also grabbed the bleach.

Once back inside the studio, he poured a liberal amount of both products onto the linoleum and scrubbed it vigorously. Shuichi finished and threw the offending can into the wastebasket. Not a trace of pink left on the floor! Shuichi hummed to himself as he locked the studio door and put the cleaning supplies away. No one would ever have to know that he was _that_ much of a spaz, he affirmed, racing out of N-G Studios proper.

---

Fujisaki Suguru was early, even for him; he liked the solitude that the empty studio presented him without Shindou-san's whining, K-san's crazy ranting and Sakano's bitter weeping over why Bad Luck hated him so much. Suguru often wondered why he and Hiro always got lumped together with Shindou in terms of laziness.

The studio smelled strongly of disinfectant this morning. Though not exactly pleasant, he could work through it. If all went well, he would work out the newest songs and have them tweaked, remixed and polished enough for Hiro's guitar tracks to be laid in when he came into work.

An hour later, he had laid in the bass line and was working with the keyboard harmony. The piece still sounded –

"Off balance." A voice interrupted his thoughts, in English, no less. K-san wasn't supposed to be here for another half-hour at least. And the accent...was British, not American.

"Nakano-san will carry the mel..." Suguru trailed off as he glanced up. "A monkey..."

"That's _space_ monkey to you," it said, fiddling with the ties on the silver jumpsuit it wore. "But you can call me Harold."

Suguru blinked. Tohma was the only one he knew that would wear silver lamé. "Harold." This had to be a practical joke.

"Yes. I thought we'd been over that already," Harold sighed. "My sources indicated that you were the best and the brightest – one of the rising stars in piano arrangements and composition," the space monkey continued, pulling out a brightly colored technological whatnot. "But maybe they were wrong."

"I'm Fujisaki Suguru! I could play the piano before I could even tie my shoes," he said, narrowing his eyes.

Harold looked nonplussed by the pianist's fevered declaration, running a series of diagnostics on his scanner. "I'd say that the newest composition for... what is it called again – some _dreadful_ title – Sugared Love? Something like that –"

"What are you getting at?"

"As it stands, the composition is hackneyed. Trite. Sub-par. I could go on, if you'd like."

"Thanks for your input," Suguru said dryly.

"Your brain function is normal, by the way. It's not that you're less talented, it's that you've been infected by the pink-haired idiot's stupidity. Your sole responsibility is to bring life to his contrived lyrics. No wonder you're running out of steam," Harold said, flipping his device closed.

"Why did you say you were here again?"

---

"Dammit, what the hell is that smell?" Hiro asked upon entering the studio with Shuichi. His eyes flicked over the unmanned keyboard. Strange. Fujisaki was always here before them... on the floor? No, that wasn't right. "Fujisaki-kun!"

"Ano... I spilled my juice last night and I cleaned it up," Shuichi said, yawning widely. The take-out place had been closed by the time he had managed to get there and the cigarettes hadn't been enough to soothe Yuki's temper.

"What the hell did you use?" Hiro demanded, turning to face his best friend.

"Cleaner and a mop! What d'you _think_ I used?"

"That can't be all you used, Shu."

"Eh?"

"Cleaner doesn't usually cause people to pass out."

"Oh! And bleach! Because fruit juice stains!" Shuichi looked proud of himself.

---

"Hm? Oh, you're just a side trip while my army of space monkey ninjas destroys Tokyo," Harold responded, sliding the scanner back into his jumpsuit. "But I'm afraid I really must be off. I've got a city to destroy – and after that – well, we'll see what tickles my fancy."

---

"Space monkeys! Destroying Tokyo!" Fujisaki shouted, interrupting the exchange. Hiro and Shuichi stared down at him in disbelief. Up until now Fujisaki had been mumbling.

"...You are never, _ever_ permitted to clean the floor. Ever again." Hiro said, as he picked up the prone keyboardist and carried him down the hall to the green room.


	2. Granola?

**Title:** Granola?

**Author: **Neme

**Blood Type: **Rocher chocolates

**Disclaimer: **Gravitation is not owned by me in any way, shape or form. But I have to obey it. Because it's the _law_.

**Warnings:** Some of the content contained herein is hazardous to your health and should _not_ be attempted under any circumstances.

**Author's Notes: **This is a product of a late night conversation with my roommate. Sort of. This second part

Fujisaki Suguru blinked blearily, the light was near blinding. What was going on? Hastily, he tried to culminate the events that had led up to this point. At eight in the morning he had arrived at the studio to work on the new tracks and then…and then…Space Monkeys! The bright light…He was being abducted!

-

"See, and you thought you'd never get to do your 'doctor' thing, ne, Hiro?"

"This isn't being a doctor," the guitarists replied stiffly, holding one of Fujisaki's eyelids open so as to check the pianist's pupil dilation with a flashlight. "It's first aid." The young musician's pupils were dilating, at least. If Shuichi had permanently brain damaged their keyboardist with his clean up cocktail…there would be a slow painful death in their future, because Seguchi-san would definitely exact vengeance for his vegetable cousin. And people who dealt with Seguchi-san usually ended up under the tires of a car. Hiro shuddered slightly at the thought.

"Same difference!" Shuichi pouted, peering over his friend's shoulder.

-

"Hullo again!" Harold said, appearing out of thin air and chewing on a granola bar.

"_You._ What have you done to me!" Suguru demanded, furious at the situation.

"My, my, my. Feeling out of sorts, are we?" Harold flicked an invisible piece of lint from one outrageously large silver shoulder pad. "Granola?"

Suguru gaped. This was entirely impossible. Implausible. Of course! He was –

"You're not dreaming," the space monkey supplied easily, pieces of oat crumbling from his fingers and littering the pristine white linoleum. "Last chance," he offered, thrusting the semi-wrapped bar forward.

-

"No thanks, I'm fine," Fujisaki stated, pushing away Hiro's hand.

"Shuichi," Hiro said, switching off the flashlight. "Go get Sakano-san's smelling salts."

"But Hiro!" Shuichi whined. He didn't want to be responsible for the delusional keyboardist. Yuki was already mad at him; he didn't need K-san shouting at him in broken Japanese and Sakano-san clutching at Fujisaki-kun's mostly limp form as he flooded the green room with tears.

"NOW!"

-

"Now. Where were we? Ah, yes," Harold said, swallowing the last of the granola. "I think it's time you were let in on a secret."

A secret now, was it? This should be brilliantly constructed. Suguru wondered briefly why the space monkey was even bothering to tell him his evil plan. The evil plan gloating always came before…death. The villain in the silver spacesuit always gloated before the protagonist in the spy movies was strapped to a giant table with an equally as giant saw blade, or to a table with a laser. But…hadn't Harold said something about his talent…about…

"I did, didn't I? Well, really, you have two options. You can stay here and be stifled by that bubblegum-headed idiot, or you can join me and watch the destruction of your beloved Tokyo by my army of space monkey ninjas." Harold propped his chin up on his hands, brown eyes shining with excitement. "So, which will it be, Suguru? I mean, I'd much rather keep you about, but if you're going to be difficult…well, I'm afraid that table saw idea of yours has a _lot_ of merit."

"Join…you…?" Suguru was utterly baffled. What was this monkey's deal?

"It's quite simple really; I'm shocked that you haven't been able to figure it out by now." Harold seemed to be grinning now, filled with some secret knowledge that he refused to share. Perhaps it was the nature of space monkeys to be mysteriously...

"Wanker-esque, is the word you're looking for."

All right, _that_ was really getting annoying. Every thought, every emotion, every…_thing_ inside his head seemed to be fair game to the monkey. And yet, Suguru still had no idea what he was wanted for.

"I can see I'll have to break it down for you a bit," Harold sighed, disappointed. He held up his hands. "Do you see a problem here?" he asked, wiggling his fingers.

Suguru shook his head. He didn't even know what was going on. His head felt fuzzy, like it was full of cotton. Strange…

"No opposable thumbs," he stated dryly, dropping his hands.

-

"I've got them! I've got them!" Shuichi shouted triumphantly, sliding into the green room, yellow sneakers squeaking to a halt.

"Four minutes. You're off your game, Shu," Hiro remarked dryly, uncapping the bottle of salts and holding them under Fujisaki's nose. He counted back from ten carefully.

"Yeah, well…" Shuichi pouted, crossing his arms and doing his best to garner his best friend's sympathy.

"The Ninja monkeys! Destroying Tokyo! They don't have opposable thumbs!" Suguru shouted, coming to. He was disoriented. The room had been white before, and now the walls were green and the floor was a royal shade of plum. What the _hell_ was going on here?

"Before it was space monkeys…" Shuichi remembered suddenly, shrinking back as Hiro fixed him with a look that, for all intents and purposes, looked as if it could kill. "…Don't blame _me_ for this!"

"Oh, I blame you."


End file.
